


working title:  on green seas

by Jade_Sabre



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 05:02:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1102731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jade_Sabre/pseuds/Jade_Sabre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A pinch hitter entry for the 2013 Dragon Age Holiday Cheer exchange on tumblr.  Still very much a work in progress, but my dear giftee asked for Carver, Merrill, and pirates.  And dwarves.  So the final product will include all these things.  A series of ficlets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	working title:  on green seas

**Author's Note:**

> As I said in the summary, this fic isn't done, but as it's Christmas I thought I would at least post the beginning of it. Happy Holidays, Elena!

“Would you like to be a pirate?”

The voice was familiar and wrong, a tickle in the back of his mind that didn't belong in a Nevarran market, and even when he turned to look he didn't quite believe what he saw. He'd spent five years trying to bury Kirkwall and yet here before him stood the best of it, and even that was merely the weathered remnants of an ethereal beauty. She wore her green kerchief as a bandana now, and the face below it was the yellow-orange tan of pale skin that'd seen too much sun, wrinkles creasing the corners of her eyes—but those were as green as ever, and the smile they held still twinkled, and his heart still, strangely, skipped a beat.

“A what now?” he said, for lack of anything else.

“A pirate,” she said, and he noticed a scar cutting across the vasallin of her cheek, the various knives tucked into the sash across her chest—the bare feet. The staff, more or less discreetly slung across her back. “We're hiring a first mate, you see, and I thought I'd ask you.”

“Do you want these potions or not?” asked the vendor of the stall he'd been perusing.

“Um,” he said, as tongue-tied as a teenager. “Yes, please.”

“Oh good,” she said, as the vendor said, “That'll be fifty silver.”

“Yes,” he said, fumbling with his purse. “Of course. I can't become a pirate.”

“And why not?” she said, watching too alertly as he counted out the coins.

“Because,” he said, handing over the money, taking the bag of potions, too aware that the back of his neck was burning and his ears were probably just as red. “I'm a Grey Warden. I can't just leave.”

“Thank you for your business,” the vendor said.

He nodded and tried to dive back into the crowd, but he felt her following on his heels. “Of course you can,” she said. “Anders did.”

“Oh, right,” he said, “that's exactly the sort of role model I want to follow.”

“Well, you wouldn't be doing exactly what he did,” she said. “You'd be a pirate. With us.”

“Who's us?” He regretted the question. He wasn't considering the option at all.

“Isabela and I,” she said. “Your sister followed Varric to Orzammar on some dwarf family business and left us in the lurch.”

“I see,” he said.

“It's not like that,” she said, cutting in front of him and hopping on a barrel, putting her almost on eye level with him.

He should have kept walking. “Not like what?” he asked, crossing his arms.

“We all left on the ship,” she said. “You went back to the Wardens, and we left on the ship.”

“So?”

“So you didn't come with us,” she said.

“I couldn't,” he said. “I can't. I'm a Warden.”

“I know,” she said. “We came to find you anyway.”

“Why?” he said. “You need a Hawke, and I'm the only other one?”

“I wanted to see how you'd changed,” she said, or hadn't, he thought. There was silver shooting through his hair at the temples and creases around his eyes from squinting in the dark of the Deep Roads—not that he really needed to _see_ to fight the darkspawn. Not that he could just up and leave and not still hear the broken chords of their song haunting his steps. Not that it mattered where he went, with the mages and the templars fighting while the darkspawn threatened to erupt from the ground and the nobility scrambled to hoard what power they could. He hadn't had a choice, joining the Wardens, and they hadn't chosen him. It was a good life; it'd given him a purpose, and glory in battle, and a lifespan of fifty years if he was lucky, and being a pirate suddenly sounded pretty damn good.

“I get seasick,” he said.

“I've got a spell for that,” she said, serious, but her eyes twinkled and his heart skipped freely and he thought for once he might just follow along.

 

-.-.-

 

“Welcome aboard the _Siren's Call_ ,” Isabela said, standing at the helm of her ship, looking exactly as though the past fifteen years hadn't happened at all, from her boots to her breasts to the gold stud in her chin—but her eyes, too, were lined, though more with carefree laughter than anything else. “Did Merrill tell you what your duties would be?”

“No,” he said, gingerly shifting his weight from one foot to the other, listening to the creak of the deck and the cry of the gulls and trying to ignore the waft of stagnant salty water.

“Oh well,” said the captain. “As first mate, it's really easy. Just repeat anything I say.”

“Anything you say?”

“Just about,” she said. “Be extra-repetitive if I'm yelling. Got it?”

“Got it,” he said.

“Good,” she said. “How've you been, Carver?”

“Good,” he said, which was more or less true. “You?”

“Good,” she said. “Better once we're out at sea. Has anyone seen that blasted elf?” she yelled, surveying the men scattered across the main deck, busy securing barrels and tying knots.

“Oy!” he bellowed. “Has anyone seen—”

“I'm here,” said a gravely voice behind them. “No need to shout.”

He turned to see a bleary-eyed elf stumbling out from the captain's quarters, white hair rumpled, expression foul. “He was only doing what I told him,” Isabela said. “You shouldn't stay out so late.”

“I was finalizing,” he paused and yawned, “our trade agreement with Georg.”

“Stealing all his coin in a Wicked Grace tournament does not count as trade,” she told him. “Besides, we're pirates. Pirates don't have trade agreements. We spend our booty on wine and women.”

“And I have a bounty of both,” Fenris said, sketching her a salute. In doing so he finally seemed to notice the new first mate. “They convinced you to come?”

“Apparently,” he said.

“Welcome aboard, then,” he said. “I am returning to bed. Let me know when we're at sea again.”

“You're staring,” Isabela said conversationally, after the door had closed behind the elf.

“If he's aboard,” he said, “why need me as first mate?”

“Because, sweetie,” she said, “you should never sleep with someone who ranks beneath you. Surely the Wardens have taught you that much?”

“We don't,” and then he stopped, because he knew if he finished with “have many women” she'd have a field day with it, and she was already laughing at him and suddenly he regretted the whole adventure. At least the Wardens recognized that he was a grown man and not a tag-along joke. “Have that many ranks.”

“Oh, we don't either,” she said. “Just you and me, really.”

“What's Merrill?” he said, and regretted the question.

“Weather consultant,” his captain said, laughing at him again. “I suppose I ought to introduce you to the crew. Men!”

There was a clatter and thump of dropped barrels and rope as the men on deck turned their attention to their captain. “Aye?” they chorused.

“This is Carver, our new first mate. Carver, the crew. They're rotten to the core but they know how to sail. You listen to him as you listen to me, or you'll be thrown overboard with nary a hope for rescue, you hear?”

“Aye aye,” they said, less enthusiastically. He tried to look stern and imposing.

“Aye,” she said. “Now back to work, you worthless runts.” She winked at him. “They love being insulted. Trust me.”

“Right,” he said.

“Did you swallow something unpleasant? Isabela, you didn't feed him swill, did you?” Merrill said, appearing out of nowhere, startling him from his stern pose. “Don't worry, we usually don't have to eat swill until the fourth or fifth week out a sea, Fenris and I are very good fishermen—”

“Don't fret, kitten,” Isabela said, “he was just meeting the crew.”

“Oh,” she said. “Isabela treats them awfully but I've always found smiling to work just as well. Would you like to see your quarters?”

“Sure,” he said, unsure if his dizziness stemmed from the sea or the conversation, and he stumbled after her as she scurried down a ladder and through the second-deck door. Her dark hair, gathered into a single tail under her bandana, bobbed cheerfully as she moved with—with an ease she hadn't had in the market. It was the ease of comfort, of safety, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt the same.

“Here you are,” she said, tugging open a narrow wooden door to reveal a chamber barely as long as he was tall. A cot lay upon a wooden pallet bolted to the hull, the small chest of his few belongings shoved beneath it, and the far corner had a small writing desk and a spindly chair, both also apparently bolted down. “It was Varric's. I didn't think you'd want your sister's room but,” she looked to him, standing in the doorway, back to the bed, “it does seem a bit smaller with you than it did with him.”

“It's fine,” he said. “More private than the barracks, anyway.”

“Oh yes,” she said, “my room's on the left, and your sister's is across the hall, but of course it's empty now, and I've got to go check the sailing conditions but I'm—glad you're here.”

He blinked, too startled to ask why, and in that blink she was gone.


End file.
